


Jorge Washingmachine

by chokingonflowers (Jeffersunflower)



Category: Historical RPF
Genre: Crack, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:16:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27653981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jeffersunflower/pseuds/chokingonflowers
Summary: Haha funny George
Relationships: George Washington/Reader, Jorg Washingmachine x Reader
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

“Thank you,” you nodded at the men who placed the washing-machine down. Finally, you thought to yourself. No more scrubbing smelly clothes against a washboard like a filthy old peasant. You were in charge of your brother’s laundry, and Lord knows that General William Howe’s army garb stunk to high hell. “The sun never sets on the British empire,” he would announce whenever he complains of the buttons on his uniform not being shiny enough. This time, he would have to tell the washing machine that, as you hugged the machine, giddy to use it for the first time soon. 

You had no idea as to why William would wear a red coat over two hundred years since the revolutionary war ended, but you let him be. Strange lad, yet you loved him dear as one should love their brother. Surely nobody else from the era of the revolutionary war should ever make their appearance in the twenty first-century. 

—

As you snuggled comfortably into bed, positively exhausted, you heard a soft whisper coming from the opposite end of the thin wall. ‘Hallo! Hallo!’ The voice called in a whispery tone, quiet, only loud enough for you to faintly pick up in the quiet of the apartment. It snapped your eyes open, before you convinced yourself it was your tired mind sounding whispers in your ear. Thus, hoping to drain it out, you shifted on the opposite side of your body and pressed a pillow to your ear. 

‘Hallo!’ It came again, after a few minutes of silence. ‘Hallo, girl, do you hear me? Hallo!’ The deep voice practically commanded. You jumped and sat in your bed, quickly turning on the night-light, contemplating if you should dash to William’s room for solace. You decided against it, (the last time that happened the Howe boy yelled, ‘Hark! Who dares intrude and fuss my darling sister?’ In his underpants and a massive replica sword drawn), and so you, in trepidation, clutching the same pillow you attempted to block out the noise with against your chest, traversed the small loop into the laundry, finding your eyes adjusting to the washing machine. 

Just as you were to flick on the light, the voice started once more. “No! I pray, you do not!” The voice was frantic, now. You jumped back and instinctively switched on the light, yelling, back against the wall, eyes wide in terror. You heard your brother’s door swing open. “(Y/N)! What causes you such a shriek?”

“Nothing, Bill, I stubbed my toe getting a glass of water,” you lied through your teeth as your brother hollered back a response before you heard the door close once more. You sighed, inching slowly to where the voice was prior. “Don’t hurt me,” you muttered defensively. “Or I must call for my brother again,” 

“Please,” it came from the washing machine as you froze in your step. Though you did expect the deep voice once more, it still took you aback. “I will not hurt you.”

You still stood vigil, as you thought to what you may have had consumed. No psychedelics, no alcohol, nothing taken from someone but yourself, nothing that could have caused you to hear voices from a washing machine, of all things. The masculine voice sighed, as its tone softened, almost akin to defeat. “Come close, little one, just,” another sigh. “Do hear me out.” It was a plead, and one which made you relent. You paced back to switch the light back off, and crouched by the machine. “Thank you,” the voice murmured sincerely. 

You sat by the machine as a silence passed, you, unsure as to when you should wake from this stream, and the voice more so waiting for you to calm and ease into this odd event. He was the first to break the silence, you raising an eyebrow in the dark as he spoke his name. “My name is George,” the voice introduced. “George Washington.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jorg Washingmachine

You blinked, eyes widened as you looked about back and forth once, settling into the strange situation. “George?” 

“Yes, General George Washington,” the voice confirmed. You were not particularly paying very much attention, more so examining and checking every inch of the new machine. “Hey,” he yelped out. “Do mind not feeling me about, miss? This is highly inappropriate,” the voice was mostly annoyed and uncomfortable, as you yanked your hand back. He huffed angrily as you moved to grab the forsaken pillow upon the floor. 

“I just wanted to know where your voice comes from,” you sulked, pulling your knees into where you held the soft pillow. Frankly, you were more than just confused, with more questions than you could allow yourself to ask, and ask you did. “Who might you be, sir?” As he attempted to introduce himself and explain his plight, George was cut off nearly every word, with you pestering him upon his age, health, looks, class, likes, dislikes - whatever that could help form an image of what this washing machine used to be as a man. Poor George was beginning to regret seeking help from this young lady, who seemed to prattle more than he could handle, unable to answer a question before the next three came raining in. 

“You will wake your brother with all this noise, my dear,” he grumbled. As you were about to open your mouth to object, nothing came out, and so, quietened at that, you leaned against the wall and attempted to picture the man in your mind. Tall and stocky; old, with a harsh face, was how you pictured him with his description, and your own implication through his voice. Deciding you might want to help this lad out, you needed to know more. Pressing on for more details, you could almost see him rolling his eyes. A general in the army, close with his brother and a love of dogs. Somehow, you could feel your heart beating just a tad faster. 

“But you are from so many years ago, Mr Washington,” you yawned as you rest your head against the machine. “How are you in such a new-fangled machine? This is the newest model, you know? I saved up for this, well, we, both my brother William and I- oh you must have heard William right just now as you made me scream-“

“Such tools for laundry has existed since the seventeenth-century.” The man groaned, attempting to divert her attention back to the topic at hand, offering no questions for he did not desire such long amounts of conversation. “Anyways, my soul is cursed to be bound to one of these, and quite obviously I should hop to the best the stores should have to offer.” You stayed silent, anticipating the rest of his tale. “I should have never cursed that hoodlum lest I be cursed,” he mumbled under his breath. 

“Oh, general Washington, I’m sorry to hear that.” Throwing your arms about the box-like machine, he let out a disgruntled noise and clearing his throat once. You let go of him (it?) and apologised. “Is there a way to lift the curse?” 

The general breathed in. “Yes,” he saw the girl’s face light up, and quickly continued. “But you cannot help me,” and with that, came another torrent of pestering as to what she could do, and how she could do it. “I said, you cannot.” George insisted, and with his harsh tone, you conceded and stayed quiet. He felt bad, and with a much more lenified tone, spoke once more. “For someone who speaks so much, you have told me nothing of you,” 

“My name is (Y/N), and I’m sleepy,” you attempted to hold an air of annoyance as you lay upon the floor. Putting your hand upon the small indent of the washing machine’s handle, you let out a small breath and closed your eyes, huddling upon the cold kitchen linoleum tiles, the only warmth coming from the machine itself. “General Washington,” you called out his name, about to keep talking, trailing off in half-sentences as you fell into a gentle slumber. 

“Two hundred years,” The sentience sighed, hearing you snore away. “And you are the first to ever listen to me.”


End file.
